The Marlon
by Das Marlon
Summary: The tale of class and male seed.


"Marlon, dear, don't you think you should go outside? It's been seven months..." The Marlon's mom attempted to use reason with her beast of a son, but it was to no avail.  
"Not now, mom," his voice distant from the stairs to the basement, "I'm disproving Christianity on the internet."  
"I really think you should go outside. It's a tad... disturbing, shall we say, to not go out for so long."  
"Disturbing... disturbing... disturbing..." The word rang through The Marlon's head over and over, searing through his heart like a hot knife thorough butter. His mother, the lone woman he'd ever made love to, calling his actions disturbing.

Knowing there was only one place to go, The Marlon went to his haven, his home away from the basement, /r9k/. After consulting with the greatest minds crippling autism had to offer, The Marlon came to realize that perhaps his mother was right.  
The Marlon went to his closet and found his favorite fedora, the signature headwear of classy, intelligent, chivalrous, and clearly atheist men such as himself. Realizing the semen stains on it from dates with his body pillow in which he'd wanted to show his true classiness, The Marlon took a permanent marker to the semen stains on his fedora. While this repair work was shoddy at best, he knew it was infinitely better than any snapback one of the dreaded swagfags would wear. This fedora showed his class and would speak to the world of his gentlemanly ways.

Being a true man of class and fashion sense, however, The Marlon knew his fedora would only be part of his attire for his trip outside. Looking over his selection of trenchcoats he'd accumulated over the years, he tried them on one by one. Though none would close, it was simply about the image of an old-school gentleman. Surely the flocks of ladies seeking a nice guy, leaving behind their asshole boyfriends, would not notice if the trenchcoat didn't close. They'd be overwhelmed by his chivalrous actions.  
After a good session of running his fingers through his neckbeard, The Marlon's now greasier hands grabbed a dark green trenchcoat. Surely, he thought, this will show that not only is he a gentleman, but a militaristic mastermind.

With the two main staples of his attire now selected, The Marlon got on with picking out the rest of his attire. Knowing memes were popular on /r9k/, his closest communication with the outside world, he purchased a troll face shirt online. After all, working up the courage and energy to leave the basement would take longer than the ordering time.  
The rest seemed to come naturally to The Marlon. Beige cargo shorts with choice semen stains as to add character, sandals, and of course, his trademark pocketwatch, with a picture of his waifu on the inside, as to remind him that he's never truly alone, no matter how harsh the outside world might be.

A week passed, and his new shirt arrived. 4xl, as to fit his large, out of shape frame. He labored up the stairs, feeling the energy his latest meal of Spaghettios and Monster draining with each step. After an hour of the most intense workout The Marlon had undergone in years, he finally emerged from the basement.  
It was a sight to behold, but for all the wrong reasons. This had once been a seemingly normal human being. Now grotesque, The Marlon saw daylight for the first time in over half a year. The change of seasons caught him off-guard, as it had been winter when he last emerged from his basement. Fedora and trenchcoat in hand, he sat on the bench next to the stairs, and opened the package with his new shirt in it.  
Immediately, the shirt's white fabric was stained with a reddish-orange color that could only come from months of only consuming Spaghettios and Cheetos combined with an utter lack of personal hygiene. He placed the shirt over his nauseating shirtless self, put on his trenchcoat, and then stood up.

"Mom!" The Marlon beckoned, "I'm ready."  
She emerged from the kitchen slowly. Years of drug and alcohol abuse due to her failures as a parent had taken their toll on her motor skills. She entered the hallway which had the stairs to the basement. The Marlon's unkempt hair was quickly noticed.  
"Honey, aren't you going to do something about..." she paused, meekly pointing at the top of his acne-spotted head, "that?"  
"Don't worry, m'lady," The Marlon responded, slowly adorning his head with his beloved fedora, "class is for men".  
The Marlon's mother opened the door and exited first. Word of The Marlon's return from his self-imposed exile to his basement had spread. While no neighbors dared to get anywhere near the beast, many hid in windows, wanting to see if it could still walk.  
With one lone step, The Marlon exited his home for the first time in years. While he'd been out of the basement before, leaving the household itself was something he'd dared not do since discovering his most sacred /r9k/.

The summertime heat quickly impacted The Marlon, as sweat started to pour from him. Fatigue set in rapidly, though he managed to get his other foot out the door, mustering what little he had left to close the door behind him.

New to the area, a female jogger passed by, not knowing the historical context of what she was seeing. Despite being on the sidewalk, and The Marlon having just stepped out of the house, his odor quickly made its way to her. Overcome by the crimes against humanity that was The Marlon's scent, she bent over at once, vomiting.  
"M'lady!" The Marlon called out, knowing his opportunity to show his gentlemanly ways was at hand, "M'lady, let me hold your hair!" Moving at a pace most would consider a slow meander, The Marlon was going at full speed, leaving a solid trail of grease and sweat behind.  
Every step he took closer, his odor intensified. One of the neighbors quickly grabbed the jogger by the arm, and offered her safe haven within his home.

His attempts at chivalry thwarted, The Marlon, now woozy, looked at the jogger, who was nearly inside the neighbor's house. "All..." he started, knowing he had little left to give, "all women." The Marlon stopped for a bit, catching his breath. The nine steps he'd taken from the door had winded him more than anything before.

"All women... are whores. You don't like... us... nice guys." The Marlon managed to finish his statement before collapsing into his yard. Glasses rattled all throughout the surrounding blocks, his extreme mass causing slight seismic action.  
The neighborhood people all agreed it was best to not find out if The Marlon had passed out, or if their prayers had been answered and he'd died. Hoping for the latter, they gathered tarps to cover the wretched beast. One man, Pete B., brought over some sod to cover The Marlon's body. The Marlon's fedora was blown into the ditch, its toxicity proven by the lack of animal activity within 10 feet of ti.  
Six weeks have passed. Nobody knows if The Marlon is still alive or not. Truth be told, nobody really cares.


End file.
